


A Stoic Mind and a Bleeding Heart

by rivlee



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: War of the Damned
Genre: Episode Related, Episode Tag, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-20
Updated: 2013-09-20
Packaged: 2017-12-27 03:19:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/973686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivlee/pseuds/rivlee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nasir in the wake of Naevia’s return and all its implications. Set during <i>The Dead and the Dying</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	A Stoic Mind and a Bleeding Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Steorie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steorie/gifts).



> **Warnings:** Mentions Offscreen Canonical Character Death. 
> 
> **Notes:** Based off Steorie’s gorgeous artwork which you can view [here](http://steorie.tumblr.com/post/54341693000) and [here](http://steorie.tumblr.com/post/54342133475).   
>  There are lines from _Spartacus: War of the Damned_ , episode 9 quoted below. The title is taken from Mumford & Son’s _Reminder_. This fic can also be read as a companion piece to _Son of a Lost Country_. Special thanks to theswearingkind who was a lifesaver of a beta. All remaining mistakes are my own.

Nasir walked on stumbling feet from Spartacus’ tent as the look in Naevia’s eyes held firm in his mind. None could say the words or utter the truth of the absence in front of them. He could feel the gazes of the others follow him as he sought silence and solitude. There was no comfort he could accept with worst fears finally confirmed. 

Agron was dead. No longer of this world. Perhaps off in his Great Hall drinking with Duro and Donar, laughing at the despair of those below. How could Nasir feel jealous that at least Naevia had Crixus’ head? Nasir had nothing but memory, one last lingering look across a road that had felt like a yawning gap. Even the pleasant bruises of their last night had faded by now. It hurt to recall that final night, when Nasir had tucked his head into the familiar space between Agron’s neck and shoulder, willing his skin to quiet the sobs that had nothing to do with pleasure; when he had felt the warm trickle of Agron’s own tears in response. They remained nothing but figments of a past life now forever torn. 

Whispers followed him as he walked through the camp, but none dared approach. Even Laeta, usually so determined to have her own way, paused when she saw him. He looked up at her, met those eyes brimming with compassion, and took the knowing nod for what it was. There was no triumph there from the woman whose husband had died because of _their_ actions, only understanding for the loss Nasir now felt. Even he couldn’t comprehend it all. He just knew that he had to keep walking until his legs gave out. He had to get away from the smells and sounds of life going on, when he felt nothing but the ever-present shadow thickening over his own. 

Nasir felt a presence at his back as he made towards the path leading into the heart of the woods. He turned to find Lugo and Saxa there. They kept all others away with dark looks and simple growls. Even the new rebels, some even called friends by Nasir, were shoved away. Nasir could only give them a nod, words unable to form in his mouth and his mind, as he continued on. He needed the trees, to remember the stories Agron had told him of growing up in the sanctuary of the woods, how the sound of wind on leaves always felt as lullaby to a troubled boy and his little brother. 

That was one of those secrets that Agron had confessed to Nasir, huddled together for pleasure in warmth, in their tent. Agron wasn’t a full-blooded German, not like Saxa or Lugo. Like Donar his mother’s family came from the southern lands, with dark hair and darker eyes than the clan of his father. His mother had been noted for her beauty as much as for her temper, and Duro had taken after her even though Agron bore the name familiar to her people. 

None of the Germans among the rebels ever denied Agron’s his role as their leader. They followed Spartacus because they believed in him, but they followed Agron because they’d come to love him. Even now, even still, they watched over the one person in this world Agron claimed to love the most. 

Nasir’s hands shook. He did not know if it was the fear, the sorrow, the anger, or all of it. He had still believed that Agron would return to them, face bloodied and smile wide and wild like always. They’d had so many near fatal accidents, so many almost-deaths, yet it seemed the Gods and their favor had finally turned from them. 

*****************

Despair was not a common notion for Nasir. He had spent most of his life carefully controlling his emotions and reactions. He always was easy to anger, burning quick and hot, but survival required him to keep it locked away. Only with rebellion was he allowed to openly show what he felt, and anger and indignation had been the first emotions he reached for, since they were familiar in a suddenly uncertain world. Nasir went from a high place of respect to a lowly recruit. Hands that had polished jewelry and washed feet were suddenly carrying shields and practicing with swords. He had to relearn his own balance, and now his hands felt empty when without weight of weapon. The training of recruits had become its own routine, and Nasir clung to that now for any semblance of normalcy. 

He did not realize he’d become incapable of sense, or kindness. That in trying to find the reasons why, in trying to bury the grief that could end him, he’d only made things more difficult for himself. Despair at Naevia’s words had been replaced by fury. Agron had left him, to die like some hero far from the path to safety. Nasir had cursed Agron, the gods, himself, and Castus. His hand still throbbed from where it had connected with Castus’ jaw three times. His heart still hurt the worse of the two. 

_The fault lies only in the times that we live. And the gods that they turn away from the suffering of good men._

Castus’ words reverberated in Nasir’s head, providing the nourishment he asked after earlier. They were a thing to cling to, an offering to ease conscience. Nasir could not find it within himself to take blame from his own shoulders and place it on the will of the Gods. They had brought Agron to him, he did not think them the reason Agron had left. Nasir would not hide from his own truth. 

He had found Castus charming and had appreciated the attention from someone who wanted him for himself and not to possess another man’s object. Before Agron any attraction Nasir felt had to be buried under the mask of Tiberius. He flirted only when ordered to do so by his dominus. His heart had never wavered in its pull to Agron, even when they were at their worst. Despite their separation, he still considered his heart Agron’s own. He did not think that would change with time or even death.

Nasir bowed his head, body shaking in exhaustion as it finally demanded the rest Nasir refused to give it. A bowl of broth suddenly appeared in front of him, and he looked up into Castus’ face, weak smile still in place.

“You should not show me kindness after how I treated you,” Nasir said. 

Castus shook his head. “You are not the first man I’ve seen taken with grief, and I doubt you shall be the last. I did not hold grudge for actions done when in such pain. You had your reasons, and mine own actions provided provocation, yet I stand beside my words from earlier. I do not hold you to blame in this.” He pressed the bowl into Nasir’s hands. “Now eat. Spartacus will need his new generals at their best.” 

*****************

Nasir was still ill-fit for any company other than his own, and now with food in his belly and apologies made to those he wronged, he returned to his tent. There was a different comfort to be found there in Agron’s old winter cloak. The fabric felt worn under Nasir’s fingers as he clutched it to his face. Remnants of Agron’s scent still clung there, of sweat, and earth, and blood. It smelled of Nasir too by now, of them together. The traces had gone faint where they were once overwhelming, but this was all Nasir had left, aside from memories and a few scraps of torn fabric from all the times Nasir tried to repair his armor. There were scant few mementos that could be taken when traveling from camp to camp, but Nasir was grateful to still have this. 

His hand still throbbed with pain from where it had connected with Castus’ jaw, a harmful blow to supportive friend that Nasir could not easily forget. He would ask Laeta for some numbing ointment for Castus. It was the least Nasir could do, even if Castus did not hold him at fault. It was another task to follow up on, another thing to add to his mental list, to keep him busy. 

Nasir took another deep breath full of the cloak’s scent before carefully folding it up and placing it on his pallet. There would always be more time to mourn; his body itched to be rid of its anger. Perhaps Lydon or Rabanus would be willing to spar. 

“Nasir!”

Nasir turned at Spartacus’ call. He hadn’t purposefully avoided their leader since Naevia’s return; he was just aware that Naevia had more important information to impart than Nasir at that moment. Their two main generals were gone, the two men Spartacus spent the most time with since becoming a slave were dead. Their leader wasn’t allowed to show too much of his own grief, though his eyes were full of sadness, compassion, and his own sorrow. Death had been a constant in Spartacus’ life since he was taken captive. Nasir had heard the stories of his wife arriving at the ludus, throat slit and dying in his arms, only to be followed weeks later by the one friend he’d made, a death that came at the end of Spartacus’ own sword. 

No, Spartacus was not a man who never knew grief. He was one who had it constantly on his shoulders over the past years. Nasir suspected it was one of the few reasons he could continue on without faltering. Spartacus used this, each death, each injustice, as food and fuel for his own soul’s fire. He would only stop when he was forced to do so. 

Even now there was a determined scowl to his face; a man focused on task first, and everything else second.

“We have chance to snatch Crassus. I would have you watch the camp with Naevia in my absence, and take command if I or Gannicus should not return. You know our plans and paths. Stick to them.”

Nasir would not argue against the decision. Naevia still required rest, and he had already demonstrated his own lack of control this day. “It would comfort me if Lugo and Saxa stood at your side in my place.”

Spartacus gripped his shoulder. “I would not have you absent those you trust most if the worst should fall on us.”

“Take just Saxa then,” Nasir said. A faint laugh bubbled up through him. “She has been too long without blood on her hands.”

“I do not desire to see an idle Saxa,” Spartacus agreed. He looked to say more, but stopped his words with a clenching of his jaw. His grip tightened where he held Nasir. “We shall speak of darker tidings with my return. If we shall not, know I stand with you.”

Nasir felt his lips tremble, overcome with gratitude for a man he had once tried to kill. He shook his head to banish any possible tears. Now was not the time to give in.

“As I shall always stand with you,” Nasir said, mimicking Spartacus’ hold, knowing he echoed words vowed by Agron. 

A slow nod of Spartacus’ head, a world of understanding between them, and they parted ways in order to satisfy their own duties. 

******************

Conversation was once easy between Naevia and himself. They had shared laughter as their men tried to pummel each other with words and fists. He had protected her in the woods, and she had tended to his wound. They had learned on the same sand of the temple steps, technique improving with each round. They trained recruits side by side, devising strategy for those who favored the sword or the spear. It was only after they took Sinuessa en Valle that words dried up between them. Once comfortable silences became strained as they found themselves on different sides of the same coin. 

Naevia had wrapped herself up in a cloak, as if the warmth that permeated the camp refused to touch her skin. Perhaps she did believe herself already a Shade, yet there was still a strength to her. Quiet fury drove her, even as she was taken with grief. Nasir could not think of what to say to her, the one who witnessed Agron’s fall, who had watched her own lover die. What comfort was there to be had in words found meaningless?

Lugo filled Spartacus’ tent with his booming voice as he traded the latest bits of gossip from the camp. His voice remained a familiar thing to cling to, a bright spot of clarity. Nasir could see Castus at his post outside the tent, providing a line of defense to turn away both friend and foe. 

“He fell fighting,” Naevia said.

Her words were enough to silence Lugo, who dropped his head and contemplated the wine in his mug. 

“He would have it no other way,” Nasir said, uncertain if they were speaking of Crixus or Agron. 

Naevia nodded again and returned her gaze to her hands. 

******************

“Nasir, come see what Spartacus has brought us,” Lugo joyfully called. 

Nasir grimaced as he pushed himself off of the floor. Someone had place a cloak over him sometime during the night. The last thing he recalled was staring at the map, trying to devise a way to weaken Crassus’ forces. They had too few numbers in the camp to do much damage now, but they could be the pests that dogged Crassus’ steps. There were other ways to bring down a man than sheer violent force. They had to prepare for the eventuality of Spartacus failing to capture the man who had proved unpredictable. Nasir knew the traitor Caesar would eagerly assume command even if he had to wrest it from the hands of Crassus’ brat. A man willing to risk death slipping into an enemy-occupied walled city would not rest idly by if opportunity presented itself. Agron had— _Agron._

Nasir shook his head as he felt the pain reforming behind his eyes, the breath tightening in his chest. 

“Drink,” Naevia said as she held a cup out to him. 

Nasir smacked his lips against the stale taste in his mouth and gladly accepted the wine. He noticed Naevia refrained from pouring one of her own.

“Nasir!” Lugo called again.

Nasir drained his cup and turned back to Naevia. “Would you like to join us?”

Naevia shook her head. “You go. I am not quite ready for company.”

They could hear loud shouts coming from below, a vicious sound in the once-quiet sanctuary of Spartacus’ tent. 

“Go,” Naevia said. “Report back on what you see.”

Spartacus and a whole set of their troops, some dressed as Pompey’s men, led a group of captured soldiers. Even from here Nasir could see the chains that bound them and felt a rush of vindication in his veins.

“Now they shall understand what it means to have freedom torn from them,” he said as he followed Lugo down to the hill path. 

It was a difficult column to push through on the ground. Both Lugo and Nasir lacked in height, but there was still respect enough among the crowd to see their way through. Stones, sticks, and other loose objects were thrown at the prisoners until Spartacus called for order. They reached Laeta’s side just in time to hear his final words.

_Their blood is to serve higher purpose._

“A sacrifice?” Lugo asked.

Nasir grinned, feeling the rush of vengeance in his blood. “Of a sort. Those could be the men who killed Crixus, and Agron, and all the others loyal to us. Blood demands blood, Lugo. Wealthy Romans have gladiatorial games performed in honor of their death.”

“And we shall repay the favor,” Spartacus said, gifting Nasir with a proud nod. 

******************

Anticipation of the games sent a tangible thrum through the camp. There had been little reason for celebration on such a large scale in months. Nasir’s parting with Agron remained the last night that held such wide-scale enjoyment. It made Nasir restless as he recalled it, knowing something kept Agron subdued, yet trying to bury concerns with ever-flowing wine. He doubted now he would ever favor such parties again thanks to the outcome. The memory itself remained bittersweet, but at least they had the one final night to say their goodbyes. 

Nasir did not think himself long for this world, not with the battles in front of them. He would honor Agron with the games tonight and with every Roman life he robbed in the pursuit of their freedom. He would carry on the cause and continue to stand at Spartacus’ back, filling the place Agron once held. 

Nasir returned to his tent and opened the trunk that held his armor. A set of Agron’s wrist guards were buried at the bottom, an old relic from their days at the temple. They would not fit Nasir, and yet he knew they would remain with him as long as he still drew breath. He pulled out his own armor, selecting a more decorative belt, and settled himself on his pallet. He draped Agron’s cloak over his knees as he checked the stitching and buckles of his shoulder guard. He knew his spear was ready for the match, always kept ready for a surprise attack. It was only the fighter left to prepare. 

A whisper of fabric drew his attention to the front of the tent. He looked up to find Spartacus studying him.

“A word?” he asked. 

“Of course.” Nasir made to stand, but Spartacus gestured for him to stay seated. 

“It will be an honor to see you fight on the sands tonight. I know you will do Agron’s memory proud,” he said.

In any other moment the compliment would’ve warmed Nasir, who reveled in the praise given from one he respected so much. He could not allow himself such luxuries now. The time to mourn would come after the fight. 

“Gratitude,” he said, the only word he could find.

“The others will never understand,” Spartacus advised as he took seat beside him. “To lose that one you feel so connected to, that part of you will never heal. I said such words to Agron once after Duro fell. I wish I did not have to say such to you. You will be angry for years, as I yet remained. The grief never leaves, but you find a reason to go on.”

“My fire still burns,” Nasir said, repeating Crixus’ words from long ago, on a night that changed all the paths Nasir thought laid out before him. 

“Yes,” Spartacus agreed with an encouraging nod. “It does not mean you will never love again, just not fully, not when a shade and its memory holds primary claim over your heart. I’ve always been honest to the company I sought in the arms of Mira, Laeta, and others. I was not a devoted man before Sura. She was a whole world of change. A woman who spoke with her gods and mocked me over what they told her, a woman I could never seek to replace. It can be difficult for others to understand why you cannot seek peace elsewhere. You can, for a time. You will learn to care again, even if it’s just in the joy of flesh against flesh, but that does not mean you are not allowed to mourn, or that you must do it stoically.”

“It was still unseemly of me to hit that recruit,” Nasir admitted. He would not hide the guilt for what he’d done.

“Ah, yes, I did hear tale of that,” Spartacus said. “Much worse was done on the training grounds of the ludus.” He grinned. “They should consider themselves blessed by the Gods to miss the sting of Oenomaus’ whip. He was quite the Doctore and never hesitated to dole out punishment.”

It was rare to hear Spartacus speak so casually of his time at the ludus. So much of the man had become legend that it was difficult for Nasir to remember he had started out like all the rest, just another captured slave. 

“I knew many a cruel taskmaster in my time as well,” Nasir admitted. “Floors had to be scrubbed a certain way, towels another. I did not speak Latin when I was brought here, and that was a task worthy of punishment.”

“You were a Syrian boy,” Spartacus said.

Nasir shrugged. “I was an object purchased for hopes of what I would become. There were worse fates for boys like me. The Gods were kind to keep me from the clutches of the whorehouses.”

“You were but a child.”

“Yet still capable of working in the kitchens.” Nasir looked down at his hands. The dirt under his nails would’ve surely brought punishment back then. “I was never beaten hard enough to make me slow in my tasks. There are other punishments that do not leave marks. I spent my whole youth learning to be the best at my position, and then you came into my villa and took that all away. I sought nothing but vengeance for all I had endured up to that point. If I was to die, along with all those of my house, I thought it best to take someone with me. I do not think I ever had chance to explain that to you. On this night, when we honor the fallen, I feel it best.”

Spartacus’ arm was a comforting weight as it wrapped around Nasir’s shoulder. “You are the last trained by my own hand, and the very best, yet it would be all for naught if you were not the man you are, Nasir.”

Nasir wondered why his vision had suddenly gone blurry. “I am so furious with him,” he admitted, voice starting to shake as he forced back the tears. 

“A natural feeling,” Spartacus said. He cupped the back of Nasir’s head. “I too stand with such feeling; the only way to be when one so beloved is ripped from arms.”

*******************

Rabanus, Gannicus, and Pollux were all old veterans of the arena, from the time before Gannicus was the Champion of Capua. Along with Spartacus, they were the only ones among the rebels to have fought in a true arena.

“It is good to fight at cliff’s edge again,” Rabanus said, patting Gannicus on the back. 

“Let us throw all the Romans over it this night,” Gannicus declared. 

Lugo and Saxa bickered off to the side, each tugging on pieces of the other’s outfits. Only Naevia and Nasir sat in mostly silent contemplation. Nasir raised his head and exchanged a look with her. Things were still unsettled there, but they yet again had mutual understanding with which to navigate this new world. 

“I commit my flesh, my mind, my will,” Rabanus and Pollux said. 

The words were enough to turn Naevia’s head and pull Spartacus from his own thoughts. 

“To glory of this Rebellion, and the commands of our leader, Spartacus, when it suits us,” Gannicus continued with a smirk.

Spartacus nodded and continued. “I swear to be burned, chained, beaten, or die by the sword in pursuit of freedom and to see Rome unto its end.” He turned to Naevia, Nasir, Lugo, and Saxa then. “Welcome to the Brotherhood, though each and every one of you was already counted as such.” 

The crowd outside was already buzzing in excitement. Spartacus gripped Nasir shoulder as he passed by on his way to Naevia. “Shall we begin?” he asked.

Her nod was quick and certain. “Let us have blood.”

Killing the Roman shits would not bring Agron or Crixus back, but they could bring honor in a way that would make the men proud. One death would not be enough to be proper sacrifice. A whole war remained ahead of them to see it done. 

Nasir spared a smile for the small grey strip of cloth cut from Agron’s cloak. It nestled now against Nasir’s flesh, held in place around his wrist by protective guard. Agron would be with him in this fight and always.


End file.
